Walking out of my local Yoga Pant Fashion Show, aka Whole Food’s at 5:00pm, I noticed two words out of the corner of my eye. I walked by the newsstand outside and saw ‘ERIC RIPERT’ in large yellow letters and had to pick up the newest issue of Ultratravel Magazine specifically to read what the Frenchman and God of the Kitchen had to say.

The following are the real questions asked during the interview. The answers are what I hoped/imagined Chef Ripert would have said and are totally fake. His real answers are in parentheses and are summarized by yours truly.

It must be amazing running a restaurant right on the beach. Being a Frenchman, do you sunbathe in the nude?

But of course. I am, how you say, uninhibited. Zo, I let my baguette hang wherever zee ell I want. (No, but maybe if I was by myself.)

What’s your drink of choice at the beach?

For me, zare eez nussing better zen a zmoozzee made wis snow from zee French Alps and crisp $100 bills. Because I am zo rich, you know. (Margarita or Pina Colada)

I love to travel and spend time wiz my family. But sometimes I get lost for days in zee crystal blue gaze of my own eyeballs. (Family, work, and myself.)

Where do you travel on your own?

To destinations where the family wouldn’t follow me…(That’s what he actually said.)

I heard you travel with a small Buddha. What else?

Yes, I also travel with Allah, my fahzzer, and Zeus. We are zee, how you say, Pussy Posse. (A cross, Ganesh, and passport.)

Do you like flying?

Eet’s ok. I weesh I would have gotten X-Ray veeshone or super human strengths. But at least I don’t have to wait in zee security line. (Only if it’s first class.)

What is your favorite dish at Blue, your restaurant here at the Ritz-Carlton?

I’d like to take inspiration from zee cinematic masterpiece Zoolander, and say, I am zo hot right now, I could take a crap, wrap eet in teenfoil, put some mirepoix and sell it to Queen Elizabeess as boef bourguignon. (Everything is good.)

You recently launched a chocolate bar called Good & Evil with Anthony Bourdain. Are you a chocoholic?

I don’t discriminate. Everyone should have a taste of Ripert. (I eat dark Chocolate everyday.)

How did you come up with the name for it?

It was on two stone tablets I came across while traveling. (Bourdain came up with it.)

You two must have fun working together.

Sure, he loves zat I can turn Evian water into wine, but he cannot walk on water zo he gets old sometimes. (We bust each other’s balls all the time.)

Idle hands are the Devil’s playground an idle mouth is a fucking amusement park…

For me that means when I’m not struggling to spew out interesting words about food, love, and life, I do one of two things with my meat paws; I stuff my face with food, get to know myself a little bit better, or if I’m really feeling like an overachiever, both at once. (Don’t judge me…I’m opening up and having a breakthrough here.)

I remember it was evening time and I was either sitting on my couch or strung out in some crack den, I can’t remember off hand, and I came across the old Seinfeld episode where George Costanza can’t eat anything without getting turned on. And it dawned on me, I’m not the first, nor will I be the last to marry food and sex together. Although I may be the hairiest to do so.

My first thought was, what a sick-depraved-pervert. (To be honest, I saw a little bit of me in that overweight, bald guy. It was like looking into a mirror actually.) My second thought was, what food turns me on? I knew immediately it wasn’t pastrami, which is apparently the most sensual of all the salted cured meats. But I couldn’t put my finger on what really gets me going. What is my 9 ½ Weeks or Hot Shots refrigerator scene? What would be my whipped cream bikini from Varsity Blues? What would be my naked Asian chick being used as a sushi platter? (To be honest, I don’t think I would eat any sushi off a female, not because the thought of raw fish near a naked girl’s lady parts grosses me out. Far from it. It’s because I wouldn’t be able to stop the inevitable tsunami of childish vagina jokes flowing from my gullet.)

My mind began to percolate with thoughts of things percolating, and I immediately picture lubed up melons and other objects that remind me of a heaving bosom. BAM! So right then and there I have my first rule of finding the sexiest food. Nothing phallic or yonic is allowed. No need to think of foods that look like vaginas or erect penises. Especially not penises because they are hands down not sexy. I have gay friends that don’t think penises are attractive. That’s the reason sculptors covered guy’s junk with fig leaves back in the day. As Michelangelo said, ‘Don’t nobody wanna look at dat shit.’

So, no cucumbers, or banana splits, or pink tacos, or raw oysters. I’m trying to take the high road, and to be honest those foods are as much of a turn on as the cheap soft-core porn on late night Cinemax. So after many hours by myself, and finally experiencing Nirvana, the band and not enlightenment, these are the three foods that would get my blood pumping:

(Editorial Note: I made a male and female example of each of my food choices and I’m not really familiar with what either sex thinks is ‘hot’ so they may be off base.)

Super Model Food: Think David Beckham or Miranda Kerr. Food that’s super fussy and high maintenance. This is the food you would have to wait an hour for them to blow dry their hair. I picture grilled foie gras, with a cherry compote, on toasted brioche.

Girl/Boy Next Door Food: Think Ryan Gosling or Rachel McAdams (+10 pts. For Notebook reference) This is the food that’s unassuming, but beautiful, delicious, and simple. Food that looks good in jeans and a t-shirt. To me no other food personifies this more than good sushi. In particular, tuna sashimi and uni. So soft and supple, you kind of want to spank it before you eat it.

Booty Call Food: Think Lindsay Lohan. A sloppy, greasy, one-night stand type of food. For me it would have to be a big bowl of pho or ramen. Slurp. Slurp. Slurp. With the soup, not with Lohan. (I don’t have health insurance so I can’t afford the shot’s needed for that type of action.)

The seedy underbelly of the Santa Monica Farmer’s Market that goes unnoticed

(I’m going to put all my cards on the table and be totally upfront and honest. These accounts are coming from my personal experiences at the market. I wasn’t and am not a restaurateur. I wasn’t a head chef or an owner. Shit, I wasn’t even a sous chef. I was just a lowly line-cook who was trying to learn from talented people and give 100%. The following accounts are my perceived truths…)

The Wednesday Santa Monica Farmer’s Market is like a high school cafeteria at lunchtime. To the untrained eye it may seem like normal hustle and bustle, but survey the scene with greater care and the ‘teenage’ cliques become glaringly apparent.

American Graffiti. Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Breakfast Club. American Pie. Mean Girls. And many more.

This Netflix queue of greatness is the cinematic embodiment of the Los Angeles restaurant scene and goes on display every week on Arizona Avenue between Ocean and 4th from 8:30am to 1:30pm. I worked at one of the most well known restaurants in Los Angeles and we would buy the majority of our produce from this market. Almost every Wednesday morning I’d drag my ass out of bed, hating life after a long dinner service from the night before, and drive to what’s widely regarded as one of the best markets in the nation. Every Wednesday morning I went to the farmer’s market with some of my fellow line cooks, along with the owner and Chef de Cuisine of the restaurant we worked at. And every Wednesday I felt like I was an extra on the set of one of these movies. Or at the very least an extra on a cheap knock off parody of one of these movies.

In The Breakfast Club, there’s a Criminal, a Brain, a Basket Case, a Princess, and an Athlete. Down in Santa Monica we have…

‘Seniors’ or ‘Cool Kids’: These guys are too cool for school and by ‘guys’ I’m including the female chefs as well. They’ve been coming to the market for decades and are an institution in and of themselves. Think Ben Affleck in Dazed and Confused. These are the chefs who can walk around like their shit don’t stink and everyone knows who they are — even non-kitchen people. This is the category my chefs would fall under, which leads me to the next clique…

‘Peripheral Cool Kids’: This is where I was during my tenure at the restaurant. I was the guy, behind the guy, behind the guy, behind the crate of tomatoes. I didn’t really add anything of merit. I got shit on by the REAL Cool Kids and I was allowed/expected to laugh whenever my chefs cracked a joke about another chef. I was basically like Amanda Seyfried in Mean Girls. I would walk around the market with a thousand yard stare just waiting for a command from my pack leader. It’s a sad, sad, sad, thing to be that little fish swimming underneath a shark. That’s who I was. Next…

‘Cool Underclassmen’: These are the young chefs who have gotten notoriety and are doing their own thing. If they get written up in Bon App or even some local magazine, the Cool Kids don’t understand why? The Cool Kids do the ‘I’m too cool for you’ Head Flick when they walk by, and as they pass immediately start talking shit. ‘Their food is too, this or that.’ ‘And it tastes like shit.’ ‘Or their plating sucks.’ They would have the perpetual Stink Face like who invited these kids to MY keg party.

Are these cliques only in Los Angeles? Did I forget any cliques from the list? Do you think I’m an idiot? Let me know what you think and holla at ya boy.

After searching through Yelp reviews and ratings, I decided to celebrate being able to use my credit card again, at a tapas bar a mile or so away from my place. I actually remember walking by earlier in the day, which speaks to what the place looks like on the outside. A lot of the places in Barcelona, except for the super touristy area of La Rambla, are understated, however this place looked like Hunter S. Thompson drew cartoons of food all over the walls during an acid trip. With bright colors, cartoons of waiters and fairy tale characters, I couldn’t tell if this was a tourist trap or a legitimate restaurant.

After making the beautiful walk into the Poble Sec neighborhood of Barcelona, my senses were heightened and on the verge of tears with every step. I almost felt like some raver at EDM, rolling my balls off, saying how beautiful Tiesto’s music is with salty fluid running down my face. It was just an awesome experience. The entire patio was packed and only a few deserted tables peppered inside the ample sunken dining room. I would say 100 people or more. By the way it was 9:45 PM…on Wednesday.

…is this Amsterdam, cuz I feel like I’m ordering drugs

I ordered a bottle of Rioja Blanca and think I scared the waitress because I’m all by myself and about to drown my sorrows with this vino. I told her in my best Americanized Spanish, ‘It’s going to be a good night.’ I immediately laughed at myself because I know aside from having dinner, I’m going to go back to an empty flat, alone, and not be able to fall asleep til the wee hours of the morning.

The tuna came out first and for some reason I was expecting raw tuna belly, probably because of the hundreds of thousands of tuna bowls I’ve devoured from the many Asian Markets I frequent. They’re like my strip clubs. I was a bit apprehensive about the tuna because it undoubtedly came out of a can or jar, but it was delicious. Along with the fish, there were large chunks of heirloom tomatoes. Pickled peppers, which tasted like a spicy green bean. And thinly sliced raw onions, that were the sweetest and most non-oniony onion I’ve ever tasted. The olive oil everything was drowning in was out of this world. So sweet and delicate, it enhanced everything on the plate without taking it over. Like bringing a 30 pack of beer to a frat party that has Jungle Juice. Everyone’s there for the Jungle Juice, but the beer makes things better.

…I’d eat these if they had real razors in them, they were that good

Then the razor clams came. Where the fuck have razor clams been all my life? They look like short udon noodles in their shells, but are packing so much more in both flavor and texture. Like a nerdy dot-com millionaire who has a big dick. I read somewhere that the toothpick is the most essential part of a traditional Spanish tapas meal, so I used it to eat each delicious razor clam and felt pretty cool. I actually wondered if anyone might have thought I was a local…Yeah, right. I’m wearing a pair of fire engine red jeans and a plaid button up shirt, and my Spanish is shit. I’m not fooling anyone.

…this is the equivalent of finding out Clark Kent is Superman

I ordered the Patatas Bravas from the ‘Classic’ side of the menu thinking it would be a throw away dish. A boring dish I’ve seen a thousand times on menus and just ordered as filler. It came out and it was boiled potatoes. (Boiled!!) Garlic aioli. Spicy tomato sauce. Olive oil. Sea Salt.

BORING…

…until I tasted it!

Those crazy Spaniards are idiot savants, or something. They took something so simple and turned it into something I’m not sure could be recreated anywhere else in the world. I’m not one for hyperbole, but I truly feel this way about this dish. The aioli is hands down the best I’ve ever had and the Yukon Gold potatoes are so sweet and not starchy at all. The tomato sauce was ethereal and apparently for good reason. The two guys who own this place, were chef’s under the Adria brothers for years, and apparently use a lot of the same recipes and preparations. The tomato sauce is the same sauce Albert Adria uses at his Michelin starred restaurant, Tickets.

Next I ordered the burger and Iberico pork skewer.

…look at that cute lil guy. I can’t wait to eat him

The burger came first and turns out the fuckin’ hamburger is the recipe from Two-Michellin star chef, Dani Garcia. It isn’t a classic hamburger, as Americans would imagine it. But that doesn’t diminish it’s brilliance. Picture finely chopped braised beef shank, short rib, and cheeks, held together with a thick demi glaze and the most perfect crunchy, soft, sour, ciabatta/dinner roll. It was great…

The skewer was better.

…this makes me want to eat my laptop

Porkier than sucking on Porky Pigs butt-cheek, in the best way possible, and seasoned perfectly. Everyone has pre-conceived notions of what to expect for events in their life. Take your Senior Prom for instance. We all want the hottest date. The limo. The tux. The dress. Putting out at the end of the night. (I know I didn’t get those things for mine.) This was just grilled meat on a stick with definitely more pork than I got on prom night, (Ba-dum-tssh!!!) but it was literally an EVENT in my life. I wont ever forget it.

…it’s a chocolate brick made of air

I was about to order the sponge cake with burnt yolk cream filling, sounded amazeballs, but got talked into the chocolate bar instead. It comes out and it’s literally a brick of chocolate. If there was a magical chocolate goose that shit out chocolate bars, this is what you’d get. It honestly looked like they just poured shiny chocolate ganache over a huge Lego. I wasn’t sure I’d have any more room, but as I ate it, I actually became less full. I asked the waitress what was in it and she said, ‘Chocolate, coffee, liquer, and air. But mostly air.’ I’ve never tasted better chocolate flavored air and I’m really not a big air person. I washed everything down with a crisp glass of champagne, which the waitress said I paired perfectly. I bet she says that to all the sailors she waits on.

I was full and satisfied beyond belief. This night, this meal, this moment in my life, could not have been better. This wasn’t a dinner where I realized I was eating alone, or thought about my ex-girlfriend. It was an experience all my own. This wasn’t one of those meals where you wonder ‘How did they do that?’ or ‘What did they put in that?’ It was super straight forward, hit on every note, and every ingredient could not only be tasted, but seen on the plate as well. I needed this. I was there to get lost in the food, drink, and the city. It’s very seldom when a person, restaurant, team, movie, etc. sets out to do or be something and actually succeed. Casa de Tapas Canotas exceeded all expectations and I would like to formally invite them to my next Senior Prom.

]]>https://lettersfromtheline.wordpress.com/2014/07/15/tapas-on-ecstasy/feed/0lettersfromtheline...is this Amsterdam, cuz I feel like I'm ordering drugs...so much better than Chicken of the Sea...I'd eat these if they had real razors in them, they were that good...this is the equivalent of finding out Clark Kent is Superman...look at that cute lil guy. I can't wait to eat him...this makes me want to eat my laptop ...it's a chocolate brick made of airDO YOU COOK TO LIVE OR LIVE TO COOK?https://lettersfromtheline.wordpress.com/2014/07/14/do-you-cook-to-live-or-live-to-cook/
https://lettersfromtheline.wordpress.com/2014/07/14/do-you-cook-to-live-or-live-to-cook/#respondMon, 14 Jul 2014 18:40:26 +0000http://lettersfromtheline.wordpress.com/2014/07/14/do-you-cook-to-live-or-live-to-cook/Harvest America Ventures: My son, a technical education teacher once said, “There are two types of workers in the world; those who shower before work and those who shower after.” I thought this was quite profound and a way to categorize the type of work people do and the mentality of those…]]>

Sometimes people don’t realize that being a chef, a true chef, is an art form in and of itself.

My son, a technical education teacher once said, “There are two types of workers in the world; those who shower before work and those who shower after.” I thought this was quite profound and a way to categorize the type of work people do and the mentality of those who do it. Having been around restaurants and kitchens in particular, for many years, I could classify people who work in kitchens as those who take on the role of cook to simply pay their bills vs. those who see the opportunity to cook as a calling; a form of personal expression.

There are ample opportunities for both types of cooks in an industry closing in on $500 billion in U.S. sales alone. Those who work for a paycheck can and often are, accomplished at their craft, however, it is a job. In some cases, operations can even disregard the talent…

I went on a 6 mile bike ride, but I ate chips and guacamole at midnight and washed it down with a few Makers Marks. Cutting down on drinking is going to be an issue, but I need to step up the workouts and curb the snacking until I can get that under control.

What are the toughest things for you to stay away from when dieting? Or do you even diet? How long have I been doing this, a day? It seems like forever. Push. Push.

If a tree farts in the forest and no one is there to smell it does it still make a sound?

— Kim Kardashian

After reading this prophetic quote from the Queen of All-Media, by the way she never said that nor has she uttered anything remotely close to prophetic, I pondered Perceived Existence and it’s obvious effects on food and sushi in particular.

Can sushi be enjoyed if you’re the only to enjoy it?

To me sushi is a social meal, a combination with who you’re eating with, and the sushi chefs at the sushi bar, and the people around you. I have always enjoyed buying drinks for my sushi chef, or asking someone near by what they ordered if it catches my eye, and just experiencing the event of going out for sushi in general. It’s almost as if eating sushi is this living, breathing…thing, which is enhanced when the amount of words coming out of your mouth increases, along with the volume of your voice, all while sitting at a crowded soy sauce covered table. Whereas soup, on the other hand, is a solitary meal in which one can drown their sorrows. For instance I’ve cried into countless bowls of pho and ramen all by my lonesome, but I digress.

I realized in all my years of eating sushi, from crazy fried rolls, to ultra expensive nigiri, to all you can eat joints, I’ve never eaten it by myself. (Except for getting supermarket sushi after dinner service at one o’clock in the morning, but that doesn’t count) Armed with my credit card and a question, I ventured down Wilshire Boulevard to see if someone can enjoy sushi all by themselves. This is hard-hitting web journalism, people.

I chose a highly rated sushi place within walking distance of my apartment, headed out around eight o’clock on a Tuesday, and grabbed a secluded table in what was a surprisingly full restaurant. I knew this place was legit as soon as I saw a sign informing customers they DO NOT make spicy tuna, California rolls, or spicy mayo. My type of place.

I decided on the ‘Japanese’ omakase, anything and everything goes, and yes they have an ‘American’ omakase, which doesn’t include the good stuff like uni, salmon roe, etc. Bring it on and lets see if this tree fart has a smell.

And so it begins…

First up, seared baby tuna, which was supple like a virgins thigh. A squeeze of lemon and it set the party off.

Raw Kumamoto oyster, amazingly sweet and crisp. Green Mussel ‘Dynamite.’ Scallop with shitake mushroom. So much umami with enough butter to give the impression it was French.

Starting get a little full…

Salmon. Yellowtail. Sweet Shrimp. Scallop.

I’m aroused!!!

Tempura Shrimp Head.

Aji. Spanish Mackarel. Squid. Giant Clam. (Not Pictured)

Starting to get uncomfortable…

Kampachi. Halibut Fin.

Must keep eating…

Uni. Marinated Salmon Roe.

You are my Everest…

Eel. Monkfish Liver.

So after stuffing myself to the brim with some of the freshest and tastiest sushi I’ve had in a long time, I had an epiphany (or a mini stroke, I can’t be quite sure other than my face was drooping a bit) and realized I was literally walking up Wilshire Boulevard with a smile on my face. Pain and discomfort coursing through my body with each step and a shit-kicking grin on my face. I hadn’t thought about the reason why I went for sushi in the first place and that, in and of itself, gave me the answer.

Amazing sushi can be enjoyed even if you’re a loser and you eat it alone.

]]>https://lettersfromtheline.wordpress.com/2014/07/11/making-life-more-palatable-8/feed/0lettersfromthelineIt's just you and me buddy...And so it begins...This is going well...Let the sushi orgy continue...Starting get a little full...I'm aroused!!!Starting to get uncomfortable...Must keep eating...You are my Everest...Making Life More Palatablehttps://lettersfromtheline.wordpress.com/2014/07/10/making-life-more-palatable-7/
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This tastes like disappointment…

Who has the best cheesesteak in Philly, Pat’s or Geno’s? Geno’s or Pat’s?

Neither, they both SUCK!

I remember my first experience with Pat’s and Geno’s, and Philadelphia in general, came via the music video for ‘Motown Philly’ by Boyz II Men. I was a 10 year old, half Hawaiian kid living in San Diego, and I marveled at the historical document accurately depicting dope-ass rappers/R&B-singers repping Philly circa 1991. I wanted to be wearing a dress shirt tucked into jean shorts, while flossing a blazer and tie, and did I mention the walking stick. If Gandolf and his crew were looking for that ring in the 90’s, they probably would have been members of the East Coast Family. No diggity. No doubt. After Philadelphia burst onto the scene with the help of the Fresh Prince, it lay dormant in my mind for years, biding it’s time until it could once again harnass the attention of its forgotten son in Southern California.

The Philadelphia Renaissance occurred due to the advent of food and travel television and spearheading the movement was the question as to who had the best cheesesteaks, Pat’s or Geno’s in South Philly. Each synonymous with the other, Pat’s and Geno’s were always mentioned in the same breath, like Sodom and Gomorrah or Simon and Garfunkel. Everywhere you looked, a talking head on TV was yapping about the world famous pair of cheesesteak shop’s, and their unbelievable product. It was like having to watch the Sham-Wow guy.

I recently had a chance to take a trip to the City of Brotherly Love for the sole purpose of being a contestant on a TV food competition show — which can neither be mentioned by name nor commented on — and was pumped with the idea of being able to eat a Cheesesteak in the Petri dish where it was created. In my childish and naïve mind, I only thought there were two Cheesesteak Shops in all of Philly, Pat’s and Geno’s. (Full disclosure, I’m not even really sure if they’re called ‘Cheesesteak Shops’, but that’s what I’m going to call them because in San Diego we call Mexican taco stands, ‘Taco Shops.’) So I was ‘Sixth Sense’ shocked when I asked the born and bred Philly security guard the best place for a cheesesteak, and his response was, ‘Steve’s Prince.’ I’d never even heard of the place, so I inquired why on Earth would he not include the Cain and Abel of cheesesteaks. ‘Cuz they ain’t that good and they assholes. They gimme a hard time ordering like I’m a tourist or somethin,’ and I live down da street jerkoff.’

Fair enough, but I felt like I wasn’t getting the answer I wanted. I started to invent reasons why the incredibly nice security guard must be wrong about his recommendation. I started to panic, and by panic I mean I didn’t give it another thought until we were finished filming the next day, when I asked one of the judges on the show where to go for a Cheesesteak. (A highly respected local chef with a great resume and an even better restaurant. And once again by law I cannot mention his name) He said if we only had one night in Philly, we couldn’t go wrong with either Pat’s of Geno’s.

Finally! The answer I was looking for. All I wanted was the ok from someone who calls this city home, to give me the ‘OK’ to go the hallowed street corner of 9th and Passyunk and indulge my carnal cravings. My best friend (Who if you must know was my partner on the cooking show and because of a non-disclosure agreement I simply cannot divulge anything else) and I arrived ready to kick some ass and takes some names. Truth be told, we were ready to drink some bourbon after a long day of filming and this was going to be our pre-drink meal. We went in with the game plan of getting the same sandwich at each place and sharing ‘One Provee Wit.’ If my Cheesesteak lingo is correct means, a Cheesesteak with sharp provolone and fried onions.

Instead of breaking down each sandwich I’m just going to use broad strokes in order to describe my disappointment. The bread was better at Geno’s but Pat’s had better meat. The onions and cheese weren’t that good and it just left everything flat and not kick-you-in-the-balls flavorful as expected. Nothing else to say really, except that the service was fast and the guys taking our orders were actually really nice and accommodating.

Bottom line, they were both just ‘Blah.’

Looking back the chef must’ve told us to go to the venerable establishments simply for the tourist/kitsch value. The neon lights. The big signs. Like a UFC fighter who says they’re going to beat Ronda Rousey and destroy her, then 16 seconds later they’re asking what hell happened. Same thing happened to us during our Cheesesteak experiment in Philly. We ate our sandwiches and looked at each like, ‘That’s it?’ I felt blue balled beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before and I was a virgin until I was 26. (Just kidding…or am I)

I was expecting a culinary epiphany as if seeing a girls breasts for the first time in person. But all I got was the equivalent of two large circles drawn on a piece of paper with two red dots in the middle. Maybe I was expecting too much because of the hype. Maybe I ordered the wrong thing. Maybe I just don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about. Probably all three. But I will stand by the fact I’ve had a better Cheesesteak in Santa Monica and possibly a Hot Pocket as well.

Yesterday was the first day of my weight loss challenge for my impending 33rd birthday. I made myself a workout schedule that I am going to do my best to make work for me. I figured I needed to be as realistic as possible with myself and with my life. I know I’m going to be doing things on the weekends with friends, whether it be going to the beach, or hanging out, or drinking bottomless mimosas. So I am completely writing off Saturdays and Sundays for exercise. If I go on a weekend hike or do something active, it will be like found money and just icing on the cake. (Mmmm cake)

And speaking of drinking, I’m not drinking during the week and will be giving myself two days during the weekend to get turnt up, whether it’s Friday and Saturday, or Saturday and Sunday. I know I should cut out alcohol all together, but I’m hoping I’ll be able to shrink it down to one day and supplement my buz with sniffing glue or huffing paint. (Just kidding)

So yesterday morning I walked to my Crossfit gym, but only got halfway before nature called, and had to walk back to take a business meeting in my bathroom. I ended up writing most of the day and walked to the 5:30pm class. The workout wasn’t too bad, but for some strange reason my atrophied muscles are so sore this morning.